Joe’s Borderlands Adventures

Fresh Meat, Fresh Hell

I stand in the darkness of my domain. My sweatpants and tank top dissolve into digital smoke, threads of code rewriting themselves across my skin. Fabric thickens, hardens, becomes armor born from war and want.

Heavy combat boots form first, soles gripping like they know blood’s coming. Kevlar-reinforced pants mold to my thighs, patched with scavenged leather and ballistic weave, holsters and bandoliers strapping tight across hips and chest; empty for now, but hungry. A chest plate wraps my torso: mismatched plates of scavenged metal, crimson piping as bold as fresh arterial spray, carbon weave underneath for flex without sacrifice. My arms gleam with fresh grease smears and ink I never had; tattoos jagged in black cel-shading lines, skin contoured like a panel from a graphic novel. Stubble shadows harsh, a scar on my chin etched deeper in comic-book contrast. I don’t just fit this world; I’m rendered in it. A living Vault Hunter, breathing, bleeding, and fucking ready.

My eyes glitch; static flares; then settles into augmented clarity. Cybernetic HUD overlays everything: health bar green and full, shield meter humming at zero (gotta earn that), ammo counter ghosted until I load up. A crosshair drifts lazy over the world.

Ground solidifies under me: hard rubberized matting over diamond-plate steel, the familiar groan of Marcus’s bus materializing in hyperspeed ink strokes. Railings sketch in, walls fill with bullet craters and scorch marks, racks of dusty weapons glint under flickering neons. The air hits thick; gun oil, old blood, cordite, and that unmistakable Pandora stink of burnt ozone and desperation. Comforting in the sickest way.

I catch my reflection in the cracked window: still me, but cel-shaded to hell; sharp lines, dramatic shadows, eyes glowing faint violet from the implants. I look like I’ve crawled out of every firefight on this rock and liked it.

The bus lurches with a mechanical bellow, suspension screaming as it barrels through the wasteland. I grab a pole, boots planted wide.

Outside the windows, Pandora renders live and vicious. Sandstorms whip red dust into cyclones, jagged cliffs stab skyward like broken teeth, sky bruised orange and electric blue. Gunfire cracks distant, engines roar, a skag yelps as it becomes roadkill under the wheels. It’s not pixels on my tv screen now, it’s alive, pulsing, hungry.

Ahead of me, Marcus Kincaid hunches over the wheel, cigar clamped between yellowed teeth, eyes fixed on the horizon like it’s personally offended him.

“Hope you ain’t one of them moral types,” he grunts, voice low and greasy. “This place eats saints for breakfast and shits out their halos.”

I smirk, my voice dropped into an exaggerated Vault Hunter drawl; sounding confident, cocky, built for this world. “Don’t worry, Marcus. I’m here for the action. All of it.”

The bus skids to a halt, brakes shrieking like tortured souls. Ahead: a captured Crimson Raiders outpost; welded steel walls, flickering neon signs spelling half-dead slogans, barbed wire dripping rust. Gates groan open on rusted hinges, inviting me in like a trap with good manners.

I step toward the doors. Marcus calls after me.

“Vault Hunter. Don’t die too fast. Can’t make money off a corpse.”

I flash a grin over my shoulder. “No promises.”

My HUD pings as I focus on him; jagged yellow frame snaps around his profile.

Name: Marcus Kincaid

Occupation: Arms Dealer / Owner of Marcus Munitions / Low-Grade Philosopher Disposition: Self-Serving Asshole (90%) / Occasionally Useful (10%)

Height: 5’9”

Weight: 240 lbs.

Fun Fact: Hasn’t paid taxes in twenty-seven interplanetary zones.

The overlay fades. Marcus scratches his grizzled chin with a grease-black finger, eyeing me like fresh scrap.

“Don’t normally do this, but… ’cause I like your style.”

He reaches under the seat and lobs a pistol my way. I snatch it mid-air; reflexes sharper than I remember. A Jakobs revolver, matte black, custom etchings curling like smoke. It feels pissed off in my palm, eager to spit ****.

Three spare mags follow; they slap into my inventory with a satisfying chime, HUD updating instantly.

Weapon Acquired: Jakobs Revolver “Last Kiss”

Damage: 72

Accuracy: 74%

Handling: 60%

Reload Time: 3.4s

Fire Rate: 6.2s

Magazine Size: 6

• Every Goodbye’s a Headshot

I holster it; a magnetic click to my hip, a perfect fit. The HUD minimizes to clean overlays: health, shields (still zero), ammo, and a new crimson title, pulsing in the corner: ScrapJack Protocol.

Marcus chuckles, leaning on the wheel. “Check my vending machines inside. No discount for new blood. And remember, no refunds.”

I nod and step off.

Boots crunch Pandora dirt. Hot wind slams me, dry and furnace-blast, carrying ash and distant screams. The outpost looms: defaced Raider banners, poorly spelled bandit graffiti in dripping red paint (“EET SHIT VULT HUNTER”), skag howls echoes in the distance.

I scan. Dust swirls. My HUD pings a soft amber overlay on a half-buried engine block, rusted and forgotten.

Abandoned Engine Block: Compatible with Action Skill

Grin splits my face. “Perfect.”

I extend my right hand, fingers splayed. My skin under the glove flares violet-blue, the veins lighting like circuit traces. A low hum builds in my chest; felt more than heard. I trigger the ScrapJack Protocol.

The engine shudders. Bolts pop, plates buckle inward. Metal screams as pistons twist, gears grind, chunks refold with violent clacks. In seconds, junk becomes monster: two jagged legs, two clawed arms, a double-barreled gun turret for a right hand. Sparks shower from joints.

It turns, and I feel it scanning me. Its voice grinds out like stripped gears.

“BODYGUARD MODE: ACTIVATED. HOSTILE TARGETS WILL BE TURNED INTO GOO.”

It flexes hydraulics with a hiss that sounds almost satisfied.

My HUD displays:

Sentient Companion: RuntBot [Engine Block] – Ground Class

Attacks: Body Slam, Spark-Plug Barrage

• 0 to 60 dead bodies in 10 seconds.

RuntBot clunks forward on stubby legs, exhaust puffing flamelets. I pat its chassis. “Damn right, buddy.”

Companion: RuntBot ACTIVE

Terrain: Moderate Hostility

We advance. RuntBot twitches, sweeping rebar and bones.

Then; raw, guttural…

“FRESH MEEEEAT!”

A Bandit bursts from behind a wrecked shed; wiry fucker, skin like jerky stretched over bone, rust-slick scythe raised, mask painted with dripping skulls.

I go for the revolver; fast… but RuntBot’s faster.

“ENEMY. ENEMY. DESTROY.”

Pistons scream. The little bastard launches like a junkyard missile. Scuttles crab-fast on nitro legs. RuntBot aims, fires!

POPPOPPOPPOP!

Spark-plug rounds hammer home; chest, shoulders, embedding with wet sparks. The Bandit’s flesh tears, blood sprays in bright arcs across red dirt. He staggers, gurgling, half his pecs hanging in ribbons, already half dead.

But RuntBot doesn’t pause. He springs, claws digging into the Bandit’s chest like meat hooks. Beeping starts; slow, ominous.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep.

I flinch with barely enough time, eyes wide; when-

KA-FUCKING-BOOM.

A tight, controlled blast. Everything above the Bandit’s knees vanishes in red mist; bone shards, explode hot meat confetti, and twisted steel. His legs crumple wetly, twitching once, then still. Gore paints the sand in a dripping starburst. Shrapnel peppers the air; a jagged chunk of RuntBot’s casing whips past and slices across my cheek; hot, stinging pain flares real and immediate.

The open gash on my cheek starts to close, flesh knitting together with a wet, bubbling pull. I wanted to feel this adventure, but it’s nice to know nothing here can really harm me. Still, a shield would be nice.

Smoke curls from the crater where RuntBot stood, scattered gears and scorched plating.

I exhale, lowering the pistol I never fired and it clacks back into my hip. My hand trembles; not from fear, just adrenaline. The sting on my cheek fades to nothing as the last threads of skin seal smooth.

“Holy shit, little dude.”

I step through the mist of what used to be a man, boots squelching in smoked viscera and blood. The Outpost gates yawn wider. Inside: vending machines glow, Raiders shout orders, distant gunfire pops like fireworks.

And somewhere beyond… Pandora. Women, Sirens, mercenaries with curves and bad attitudes. Pandora’s got plenty of trouble worth fucking as much as fighting.

This world’s my playground now.

I crack my neck, wipe the last smear of blood from my cheek with the back of my glove.

Time to raise some hell, and maybe get some head while I’m at it.